


Impossibly Green

by HowardR



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23608360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowardR/pseuds/HowardR
Summary: We get a description of life at Privet Drive, before focusing in on a young boy there.Harry only has one friend, and he's about to take Harry someplace... odd.
Kudos: 8





	Impossibly Green

**Author's Note:**

> J. K., lord and savior. J. K., queen and ruler.

If one were to hear of the mischievous escapades of Harry J. Potter, they would probably imagine a very different person accomplishing them.

As a matter of fact, people who met and interacted with Harry often got a completely different visual impression of him mentally, entirely due to the way he acted. This is not to say that Harry was not striking visually. No, the fact of the matter was that Harry Potter was  _ very _ striking visually. But people often just get a larger mental impression from one’s personality than their appearance. And thus, people often thought of Harry as looking a certain way, and almost managed to forget his actual appearance. Or rather, forget to assign the unforgettable appearance of the boy they had met to their mental image of Harry J. Potter.

The image that people assigned to Harry was of a tall, striking young man. A man with a frame that was thin, but powerful - perhaps best thought of as ‘wiry’. They imagined eyelids squinted against the sun on a bronzed face, and of hazel eyes beneath that squint that had a slightly mischievous spark to them. They imagined clean, dark clothes and a heavy tread, and clean, close-cropped black hair. They imagined a boy who ran straight, smelled of something vaguely spicy, and stirred the loins of eleven year old girls with merely a wink. And of a face perfectly schooled to look innocent and serious.

This was not what Harry looked like.

If there was anything in that description that was correct, it was that Harry J. Potter was thin. And he was. But even in that descriptor, there was deceit.

For Harry Potter’s special brand of thinness was not ‘wiry’. It was certainly not ‘powerful’.

If there was any word that fit Harry’s thinness, it was  _ sickly _ .

But perhaps we best come back to Harry at a later date. After all, we must be diverse - and we have spent a touch too long focused on one thing. I’m afraid this humble narrator will just have to leave you in suspense. For now.

Instead, let us speak of the Dursleys.

The house that was known as ‘Number 4 Privet Drive’ was just as normal as the name would suggest. At least on the outside. Though perhaps ‘normal’ is too kind a word. Harry would use ‘boring’, but perhaps we would be most accurate in forcing it to assume, not the word Harry uses out loud, but rather the word he uses only in the depths of his mind. Military.

Everything in Number 4 was perfectly orderly. The routine was never broken. Every surface was perfectly clean, to such a degree that it would almost be museum-like in its sterileness. It always smelled of cleaning products - of bleach. It was a smell that sickened Harry, and would continue to sicken him even well into old age. For it always brought memories of the perfectly military house he had grown up in.

It was all the worse, for Harry. Because, to anyone who had not lived in it as he had, it would seem so… normal. So  _ orderly _ . Hardly worth even a first glance, much less a second. And that made it so much more  _ sickening _ to Harry, because of the secret it held in it’s bowels. Something so normal, and yet so  _ wrong _ . Like an eye without an iris, or a smile with too many teeth.

Uncanny, was the word.

The occupants of the house, aside from the aforementioned Mr. Potter, were all just like the house, as far as Harry was concerned. Normal. Orderly.

And oh so  _ wrong _ .

Every resident of the house, aside from Harry, was a Dursley. There was the matriarch, Mrs. Petunia Evans-Dursley, the patriarch, Mr. Vernon Dursley, and the doted upon son, young Dudley Dursley.

Petunia, or as Harry so fondly called her, ‘Aunt Petunia’, was a woman who looked older than she was. She had not been thickened any by the process of childbirth - on the contrary, Petunia was almost as thin as her nephew. And because of this, the lines of her face and body were sharp, harsh. As harsh as her words were to her nephew; to Harry’s immense surprise, all of his relatives had physiques that fit their personalities.

Petunia hated many things in this world, but as far as Harry could gather, she loved only two. A clean house, and her son.

And Harry could not emphasize enough that it was her  _ son _ that Petunia loved.  _ Not _ her nephew.

Vernon Dursley, Harry always thought, looked like a man who should have smoked cigars. He was certainly large - if there was any word that fit Vernon, it was  _ large _ . He wore brown suits of only the most gaudy design, told jokes that he thought were much funnier than they were, and drove the most hideously boring car Harry had ever seen. And Harry was no slouch when it came to cars. Yes, whenever Harry imagined his uncle, his fingers were always nicotine stained, and there was always a cloud of foul-smelling cigar smoke hanging around him.

But he didn’t smoke. Vernon said it was a nasy habit.

And lastly, there was Dudley. A child who acted just as his name and parents would suggest. Spoiled, fat, sadistic and disgusting. When he put on a suit he looked like he was a pig in a wig, as far as Harry was concerned. Though the one time he voiced such an opinion, Dudley had done his best to give Harry a black eye for it.

He had failed, but calling Vernon had resulted in much worse results for Harry than a black eye. Though Harry thought it was worth it.

But now, we come back to Harry. If there was a word that fit his physique, it was  _ sickly _ .

He was thin. Rail-thin. His bones showed at every joint, his ribs poked out from his skin and his collarbone was visible if one were to just look down his shirt. He gave off the appearance of being gangly, despite the fact that his thinness was the only descriptor that mental image got right.

Meaning he  _ wasn’t _ tall. And yet, he still looked gangly.

Seeing Harry from a distance often gave people the impression that they were looking at a third grader, as opposed to the eleven year old boy that Harry actually was. He was short even by those standards, and his cousin, despite not even being a month older, practically towered over the younger looking Harry.

As a result of this thinness, the hand-me-down clothes from his cousin seemed even less appropriate. He practically swam in the shirts he had been given, and as a matter of fact, the best fitting thing he owned was a jacket he had stolen from the school lost-and-found. It was one of Harry’s few prized possessions, purely because it was  _ his _ . Not some hand-me-down from Dudley -  _ his _ .

It was a possessiveness he didn’t question.

Harry also wasn’t tanned. Or ‘bronzed’. No, Harry was  _ pale _ . Harry was so pale that his veins were bright on his arms and could be seen down to his elbow, his skin so translucent that it was almost white in the afternoon sun. His cheeks were sunken, just as his eyes were, and the pale flesh clung to his bones like a crazy ex.

Harry’s hair was nowhere near ‘close-cropped’. And it also wasn’t clean. Rather, it spiked in an untameable fashion and hung down a bit past his shoulders. Whenever Harry found a plant flexible enough, he would use green plant stalks to tie it back into a ponytail, and it would bounce wildly as he ran down the streets.

Harry didn’t smell of anything spicy, vaguely or otherwise. Instead, he smelled of the outdoors; of dirt, and pine, and wet autumn mornings. Smells Harry loved, but his aunt hated with a passion. She took any opportunity she could to spray him with Febreze, but she couldn’t bear to let her beautiful garden die or to tend to it herself, so - outside Harry stayed. And he continued to smell of things that Harry loved, and Petunia hated.

Harry did not run straight, either. Instead, his running was almost like some corrupt  _ dance _ . His steps were light, only putting on pressure for the shortest of moments before leaping off. His arms bounced wildly too and fro, just as his ponytail did, and his thick-rimmed glasses needed adjusting nearly every other step. It bothered Harry to no end that he needed glasses, and it bothered him even more that the only ones he had were thick as coke bottle lids and taped at the bridge. No, Harry certainly had no like for his glasses - unlike his father.

And Harry never looked serious. Or at least, not so far. Instead, he was constantly wearing a cheshire grin that showed slightly crooked, but perfectly white teeth. He brushed often, to get the taste of garden out of his mouth, but he had never gone to a dentist, so crooked his teeth stayed.

And more than anything else, we must note Harry’s  _ eyes _ .

First of all, despite his time spent outdoors faced toward the sun, his eyes were never squinted. They were wide, always wide. His eyes soaked in the sun like a growing plant, and his pupils, as a result, were always dilated. Which brings us to the eyes themselves.

First, his pupils. They were not the forgettable pupils that most men had - no, people who saw Harry’s pupils never forgot them. They were… they were like pits. Wide, and deep. But not deep as one would think - not deep with secrets, and moss grottos and hidden oases. No, they were deep with  _ space _ ; deep with  _ emptiness _ . Though this expansive emptiness was made up for by the color of his eyes.

They were certainly not hazel, though they did have a certain glint of mischief. No, they were  _ green _ .

_ Impossibly. Green. _

Green like flames. Green like oceans. Green like plants, and rusted copper, and pine needles. All of these greens, and none of them. Sparks flew from the watery depths - sparks that were green in a way that wasn’t green. Green like  _ red _ . Green like  _ neon _ . Light shined from the depths of green oceans, and fires ran beneath the rusted copper, and the sun shined behind the foliage.

_ Killing-Curse green _ .

That was the only word that fit the shade. Though, of course, nobody in Privet Drive knew it.

For it wasn’t even quite killing-curse green.

It was  _ magic _ green.

And Harry was the only one with enough magic for his eyes to  _ brim _ with them. Except, perhaps, for his mother. A woman so magical she practically  _ shone _ with it, so magical it taunted her muggle sister and made hatred grow and curdle in her stomach.

And they mocked Petunia, even now. From beyond the grave. Through  _ Harry James Potter _ .

And Petunia  _ hated _ him.

For his eyes - they were even more green than her sister’s.

It was no wonder, really, that he would grow to be the greatest wizard of his age. A title that would have made Harry laugh, in the privacy of Privet Drive.

And Harry would have laughed, also, if he had learned that it was the most important day of his life. For Harry had just run away from home.

And he was still grinning that cheshire grin, with those eyes brimming with magic. Even as a voice whispered in his ear.

It was a voice that Harry had grown used to, over the years. It still annoyed him, sometimes. And he knew that it was a sign of insanity. But he didn’t really care - because it helped him.

Tom was helpful, when he wanted to be.

* * *

Sometimes, Harry wanted to smoke.

“Hello, New York,” he whispered, still grinning maniacally. A few people glanced up from their drinks at the merry chime of the door bell, but glanced away again at the sight of the clearly slightly deranged child.

_ Go up to the bar. The tender’s name is Tom - he’ll help you. _

_ Tom? _ Harry thought back.  _ Like you? _

Harry could practically  _ hear _ the small sigh that escaped Tom’s lips.

_ Why did I get stuck with you? _

_ Aww, come on. You know you love me. _

“Excuse me? Sir?”

Harry toned down his grin to ‘happy youngster’ when the bartender looked up. The tender smiled back at him, which instantly made Harry’s opinion of him jump from ‘enemy’ to ‘suspicious’.

“My name is James. I recently got a letter from a place named ‘Hogwarts’, and-”

“Say no more, Lad,” the tender responded with a careless wave of the arm. “You’ll be wanting to get into Diagon, then?”

_ Yes. _

“Yep!” Harry popped the ‘p’. The bartender smiled down at him again, and walked to the back door. Despite his misgivings, Harry cheerfully followed.

_ Diagon Alley, here we come. _

_ Yes! Wherever that is! _

Tom scoffed at him, which made Harry grin wider. His only friend really was too easy to annoy. As they passed the bar, Harry took a short moment to steal a shot glass of orange liquid from one of the patrons, who was currently turned around. He downed it in one gulp, grimacing slightly at the burn as it slid down his throat before setting it back in its proper place. He felt warmth run through his veins surprisingly quickly, meaning it was likely quite strong. It made Harry grin wider.

_ Yes, it is quite strong. You really shouldn’t be drinking random people’s drinks, you’re actually quite lucky it was just firewhiskey. _

_ Well, your blood is more than cold enough to deal with it, right Tom? _

_ Hah hah, real clever, you little shit. I swear, sometimes I want to strangle you. _

_ Only sometimes? Eh, still better than Vernon. _

Tom, despite his misgivings, shivered.  _ Yes. Have I told you how glad I am that we don’t have to deal with him anymore? I swear, filthy muggles… _

Harry still didn’t know what ‘muggles’ were, but given how smart Tom was and how much he complained about them, he wasn’t inclined to like them. But he sometimes heard the term applied to people he actually rather liked - Ms. Chute really hadn’t been  _ that _ bad, had she?

_ Yes, she was. She was a whore, Harry, couldn’t you tell? You’re a clever enough child. _

_ Aww, I never knew you cared, Tom! _

_ Her lipstick was smeared, she wore too many rings, and you could see her panty line a mile away. _

_ But if the people she’s with are just with her for pleasure, and she’s with them for pleasure, then it only means good things for both parties, right? So why is it bad? _

_ It isn’t, not morally. It’s just… not something I want to be around constantly. _

_ Huff. Fine. _

“There you are, lad.”

Harry looked up.

“...Huh.”

_ That’s really all you have to say? ‘Huh’? _

_...I guess magic is real, then? _

_ Yes. Obviously. _

Harry grinned another manic grin.

_ Well, it would appear I have some stealing to do so I can buy magical stuff. _

And he felt Tom grin viciously inside his head.

_ That you do, Harry. That you do. _

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, this totally isn't even a little fleshed out. Anyone who actually liked this probably wishes there was more to it, but for me, that seemed a good place to end it.
> 
> I originally planned to make this a full series, and I may revisit this one in a very long time, but there wasn't anything creative I could think of to do with this idea. So it just... gathered dust among my files until I finally decided to polish it up a bit and just... publish it. I just couldn't get this out of my head - so I apologize to anyone who wishes this was a bit more than it is.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this little ficlet.
> 
> -Howard R.


End file.
